Tales of the Orismer - Shagrel's Journey
by acl95
Summary: Shagrel knows little of her past, save her miraculous escape as a young child from her massacred home. On a journey through Skyrim, the details of her life unravel themselves to her, and present new dangers she must face in her near future.


Long past memories of Dushnikh Yal still echoed around the howling winds that beat against the craggy rocks surrounding the stronghold. Shagrel pitied these lonely whines that whistled up from the abandoned mine – it wasn't the first time she had come back to the place of her birth and looked for something, anything, to hold on to. The shouts of Chief Burguk had washed away with the blood spilled here all those years ago; the squabbling competition amongst his wives brought to a brutal silence. And in the midst of it all had young Shagrel survived. She had visited her former home on umpteen occasions to search for clues; some trace of how she as an infant had got through the massacre unscathed, save a sharp wound across the back of her hand, which long since had formed into a familiar scar.

She resigned herself to return to Markarth before nightfall, but found it difficult to tear herself away. There was no pressing need to return to the city anyway – Ugruk was away further south on a mining job, and the Committee didn't meet again until the following evening. Nonetheless, Shagrel was hungry, and tired from a day of direction-less wandering, and set her course due north-west, back home.

Passing over Reachcliff bridge, she chanced a look back at the forgotten stronghold, but the sun was setting and the light too dim to get a proper view. The stone city loomed ahead, and she pressed on. She had nearly reached home when she heard her name being called. Turning around, she saw poor Omluag running towards her, with that nervous smile he reserved only for her eyes.

'Good evening Omluag.'

He seemed to flinch even at her polite greeting.

'Hi Shagrel... I mean good evening...'

He continued fumbling his words, wringing his hands together in anxious fury now that he had her attention. Eager to put him out of his misery, Shagrel pushed the conversation onward.

'Have you something to tell me? I can't get Mulush off your back again you know, there's only so many favours I can get out of such a brute.'

This seemed to relax him somewhat, and he continued.

'Oh no, nothing like that. I was just told to inform you that the committee have pushed up the meeting to tonight... It's in half an hour in fact.'

He immediately sensed her exasperation at this news.

'Please don't be angry with me... I'm just the messenger... Ghorza's orders...'

Her frustration faded away into a bemused laugh at the pathetic snivelling of the wretched Reachman in front of her.

'It's ok Omluag, run along. Tell Ghorza I'll be there.'

He scurried away, and Shagrel headed inside.

'This meeting for the Committee for the Reunification of the Orcish clans of Skyrim is called to order!'

Ghorza slammed the wooden mallet she had purpose-made down on the table so hard that Shagrel's beer spilled onto the table.

'Is that really necessary?'

When Shagrel had first joined CROS it had been with little serious political intent. It was difficult for the marginalised species that inhabited Markarth to enjoy any of their time as the majority of it was spent either working their hands to the bone or being persecuted by Imperials and Nords. The dark-skinned races had a place here – the Committee had actually had more Dark Elves in it to begin with than actual Orcs, Shagrel recalled. However, Ghorza, in her position as President had begun to take the whole thing far too seriously, and, indeed, had not only destroyed its original purpose but driven out a large chunk of its attendees. Now, only Shagrel, Ghorza, and her brother Mulush were there representing the Orc population of Markarth, with Omluag obediently serving drinks, and a perpetually drunk Dunmer named Orvas slobbed in a chair in the corner who would occasionally scream out obscenities.

'I would ask you the same question with regards to your alcohol.' Ghorza replied, as Omluag hastily moved to clear up the bubbly mess.

'What the hell's that supposed to mean?'

'It means that something as serious as Orcish reunification needs to be discussed with respect to correct protocol and formality.'

The smug smile of Mulush's face at his reply was almost unbearable. Shagrel rolled her eyes.

'Fine. Go on then.'

'Indeed. Item One; Good News from our Dark Elf Partners.'

Orvas wailed something vulgar at the mention of his race before swinging his head back over his chair in inebriated exhaustion. His imminent snoring filled the room.

'What Dark Elf partners?' Shagrel pressed. Then, gesturing to Orvas 'That thing aside, we don't have any!'

'That's where you're wrong.' Ah, clearly the smile of smugness was a family trait. Ghorza deigned to enlighten her.

'We have word from Whiterun – A group of Dunmer irredentists that we have been corresponding with have lent their sympathy to our cause in exchange for ours to theirs. In a few days, we shall have ten Dark Elves arriving here in Markarth that we will be taking under our wing so they no longer have to face the Nordic oppression of Ulrich and his 'Stormcloaks'. In order to continue to improve relations, we are sending our own people their way. We hope to liaise further and maybe agree to some trade deals if possible.'

'Our own people? What do you mean our own...'

The penny dropped for Shagrel mid-sentence.

'Have fun while you're there!' Mulush chuckled.

The following morning Shagrel was almost ready to depart. Her initial dread at heading to Whiterun had been diluted overnight; she had heard from Ugruk – apparently he would be stuck down at his mining job for the next month at least. With little of interest to keep her in Markarth, Shagrel had resigned herself to this trip into Stormcloak territory she hoped would be as productive as it was short.

Ghorza and Mulush's Imperial connections had acquired a small detachment of troops to escort her to Whiterun. The siblings had served as smithies and were owed more than a few favours for their legendarily fast and efficient work. Much to her surprise, Omluag, sat awkwardly on his own little pony, was waiting next to them.

'What do you think you're doing?'

'Oh..well... you see... I've been told you might need a male influence, you know, to... to be assertive if needs be and.. and...' He rambled off on an endless, incoherent, ironic babble. Shagrel rolled her eyes again, and mounting her horse, lead the way as the small band set off.


End file.
